Shotgunned By 20 Questions From A 7-Year-Old

A few days ago the boy came down with a 102 fever.

Typically he man-handles the fever, throws it on the floor and tells it that “your mom’s so fat she wears a VCR as a beeper.”

But this time, the fever got the better of him and stuck around for a while.

So, the next day we call the doctor, set an appointment, and a couple hours later I’m on my way to get the boy looked over.

It was upon this journey that the he unleashed a fury questions that almost had me comatose, crying, and begging to just be put out of my misery.

Hell Hath No Fury Like 20 Questions Shotgunned From A 7-Year-Old

“What are they going to do to me daddy?”

“Take your temperature, listen to you breathe, listen to your heart, and probably…”

“Will I have to take my shirt off?”

“I don’t know buddy, probably.”

“And my pants?”

“I doubt it. You’re sick around your throat so I doubt they’ll…”

“I remember going to the doctor one time and I got down to my undies and then the doctor pulled them out and looked down at my pee-pee. And she was A WOMAN!!! Will I get a shot?”

“Yes, probably in the neck.”

“DADDY ARE YOU SERIOUS?!!!”

“No dude…I’m kidding. No, you probably won’t get a shot.”

“Will I ever get a shot again in my life?”

“Yes, we’ll be getting one as a family in the next few months before flu season.”

“REALLY? Will they do it in the arm or in the leg?”

“Probably in the leg, Grayson.”

“Will it bruise me?”

“I don’t know, but if you ask me another…”

“What causes bruising?”

“Well, the shot breaks the skin which injures it and causes it to bruise on some people. I think.”

“Do I have the flu right now?”

“No Grayson, I seriously doubt you have the flu. It’s not…”

“How do you know? You’re not a doctor?”

“Why did you ask me then?”

“Do you think mommy bruises?”

“I know she bruises dude. That’s why she’s always running away from me?”

“Because you bruise her? That’s mean daddy.”

“No…no…not like that. I meant…just, you know what, let’s listen to some music and just relax for a bit dude.”

“Will they have bathrooms there?”

“Seriously? You seriously want to know if they have…”

“What if I have to go boom boom while she’s taking my temperature?”

“Ok, now you’re just being ridiculous. Do you want me to stop and get you a diaper?”

“DADDY!!! NO!!! But…can we stop and make Macy wear one?”

“Want to play the quiet game with me?”

“Will my doctor be a woman?”

“Yes, all the doctors here are women.”

“Will they take my pants down?”

(I mumble) “No, but daddy might take his pants down if…”

“What daddy?”

“Nothing, I was just thinking out-loud.”

“About the doctor?”

“Yes Grayson…about the doctor…hey look…something shiny out the window!!!”

We arrived a short time later. This, my dear readers is one of many reasons why I sometimes fall asleep crying almost every night.

The Puke Plague

Sick, sick and more sick.

And I suck when I’m sick and in dealing with the sick. Which has made the past few days random snippets of hell.

After a week watching my son strategically wipe gallons of green and yellow goo from his nose all over our furniture, carpet, and clothes, we took him to the doctor only to find he has bronchitis. Two days later I woke up around 4 a.m. feeling like that douchebag on the Internetweb Machine Thingy who takes a flaming shot and catches his mouth and throat on fire.

I’m the biggest baby on the planet when I get sick—shocker, I know. I have these long, green boot-socks that I put on and I walk through the house silently letting everyone know I’m officially ill and to please back-the-fuck off. And then I disappear to the bedroom for a day.

This past Saturday the wifey and I had the most magical of nights planned. A friend of ours (@momomatics) and us got a joint baby sitter. Kids were sleeping over at their house. I bought 439 candles to light throughout the bedroom. I paid a 36 piece string band to play in our bedroom. Shit, I even emailed Al Green to see if he’d show up to add some extra mojo to the ole love palace. Game was on!!!

We dropped the kids off and the four adults hit the town hard. Beers and shots were flowing, tons of laughing in the air, I was busy razzing the waiter, and I occasionally I’d write little love notes on napkins and slide them over the wifey’s way.

We roll into a 9:30 p.m. showing of Shutter Island and settled in. Exactly one hour later I go pee and I’m standing there as the phone vibrates (cause yeah…I listen to the pre-movie stupid dancing phone douche that tells me to put my phone on vibrate). I look down and it says I’m getting a call from @momomatics.

So I answer, “What woman?!!!”

And I hear, “ummm…this is the babysitter and your son is throwing up.”

And I’m all, “Are you sure? Like, did he just choke on something by accident and he’s better now? Or maybe he’s just pranking you. You should go check and call me back in a few hours.”

She says, “No…no I’m pretty sure he’s sick. There’s a lot of it. And, please tell Ms. (@momomatics) that her toilet is clogged and won’t flush.”

Yeah…that’s how my super sexy, kick-ass, romantic night came to a screeching halt. Half-a-movie, kid puking, and visions of a puke-clogged toilet.

By 11:15 p.m. we had both kids back at our house, son face-first in the toilet, and me, selfishly in a corner holding one of the 439 candles crying and asking “why baby Jesus…why??!!!”

And now…as of last night…the wifey is now getting a microscopic view of the toilet as she “talks to Ralph on the big white phone,” and the boy has started round two of the pukes.

Please let the daughter and I be the last people standing! If not…let it hit me so hard that I drop at least ten pounds…the last ten I need to lose before increasing my running pace by 20 seconds a mile.

It's Puke Time!

“TRASH CAN!!!!” – those were the words that had me sprinting out of bed like a mad man Saturday morning at the crack-ass of dawn. My precious little princess needed a bucket to bury her head in while she unleashed a fury of puke. She’d been puking since 1 a.m. – roughly the time my wifey got back from her birthday celebration with a friend while I stayed home with a feverish daughter.

I hate hearing her the daughter scream those words. I hate the pukes. I hate when you hold the door for people and they don’t say “thanks.” I hate pooping in public restrooms. I hate when you’re walking down a busy street and you trip on a crack and almost fall, but don’t and are then faced with having to play it off with a slight little jog like everyone’s really gonna believe that you just felt like breaking into a 14-step jog just for the hell of it on the way to work.

So she gets the trash can, pukes…..and pukes….then says, “I’m done. Wash-cloth!!!” And I take the trash can, give her a damp, cool wash cloth to wipe her face and mouth with. Then I tuck her back in bed and go sanitize the living shit out of myself.

Having a sick kid sucks. I hate it more than anything and I’ll do anything to make the kids feel better. But I can’t help but analyze the difference between the two.

Son

Usually he gets one good puke in his bed which wakes him up. Then he stand up, screams “daddy I’m throwing up!!!” while running like a naked banshee through the hall, puke spewing out his nose cause his hands are over his mouth, then he pukes all over the toilet. But from that point on – he makes it to the toilet every time. Of course he always has to announce to me…not the wifey, but me...that he’s puking.

Daughter

The princess in her takes over. She might as well say in her 14^th-century voice, “Oh father dear!!! Father!! Please fetch my golden puking pan! Oh no silly man, not that one, the one mother and I bought the other day whilst in the city. Oh good God father, the ooother one. And it better have a shine to it. I had the butler shine it and if he didn’t well I will just have to get upset, now won’t I. Now hurry up father as I am going to vomit all over it. Bring it here. Now hold my hair and turn away…..I am a lady after all.”

As a kid I remember I couldn’t throw up until I had woken my mother and informed her of the impending toilet decoration I was about to unleash. She was one hell of a heavy sleeper. As soon as I’d get her awake, I’d tear-ass down the carpeted hallway and a good 10 feet from the bathroom I’d just let it launch. Like a dog pissing in his favorite spot in the house, I was drawn to this one spot at the top of the stairs where I’d puke every time.

The wifey’s gotten better, but for a while, she would always give the kids water right after they finished puking. And I’d be all: “Shnookums. You can’t give them anything to eat or drink or else they’ll puke it right back up. You have to wait for a while to make sure the puke bug is gone.”

“But she asked for water and she will get dehydrated.”

“I’d like you to take your shirt off. I’m actually asking you to…does that mean you’ll do it?”

“What is it with you and my boobs?”

“You've got a great rack, but don’t go getting all cocky. I have been known to visually enjoy other ladies boobs.”

“Our kid is puking and you’ve somehow managed to even turn that into a conversation about boobs!!! You seriously need to go to counseling.”

So long story short…we took daughter to the Dr. They said go to the ER. They wanted to watch her overnight. They did a shit-ton of tests. Originally they thought it was a urinary tract infection and/or flu. By the time the daughter came home they were convinced it was only the flu, but still weren't sure. We get test results back on Tuesday. Until then, she’s on tami-flu and antibiotics.

Thanks to everyone who send wonderful thoughts and continually asked about her over the weekend. I can’t even begin to tell you how awesome you all are. Thank you!!

Sex & The Snuggie

I got a glimpse last night into what my winter will be like. Let me rephrase that…what my sex life will be like this winter.

My wife is sick right now. I fell badly for her because she’s clearly not feeling well. She tries to help around the house, but all I see through my insane, fucked-up way of thinking is her spreading germs all over the house.

Last night I’m hanging out, just finished putting the little bastards to sleep, when it happens. The wifey descends from upstairs and flops down on the other end of the couch wearing the big, blue, stupid, frock looking, Snuggie. Yeah the real Snuggie.

Now…she knows I hate the Snuggie. She knows the first time I saw an ad for the Snuggie I picked up the TV and threw it out the front window. She knows that the very site of the Snuggie makes me want to take a flamethrower to it. It’s like nails on a chalkboard to me. But what am I going to do? She’s sick, and achy, and clearly wanted to get warm.

Then I suddenly became paralyzed with a sudden formula:

Comfort + Warmth = Snuggie cock-blocking all winter long.

She’s never going to take this thing off again. It will forever be the oversized sheath covering wifey and keeping us from the wonderful world of whoopie-making. It will become one with her. Once the children are tucked nicely in bed, she will shroud this magnificent piece of marketing bullshit around her body making her impenetrable to any and all efforts me and my little fella make towards sexual bliss.

I know, I know..you’re thinking, “well climb in there with her you idiot.” No..for a few reasons...

1) I hate the fucking Snuggie and don’t even want it touching me.

2) Wifey is clausterphobic and would be miserable with her and me in the Snuggie

3) I hate the fucking Snuggie and don’t even want it touching me.

And there’s no such thing as a crotchless Snuggie. There’s no Velcro strap that can be removed and placed back once the deed is done. There’s no flaps up top like women’s breast-feeding bra flaps.

My anger for the Snuggie has now reached new dimensions.

You’re on notice Snuggie. I will fuck you up. You will die. I will watch you burn, Twitter about it, TwitPic the whole thing, blog about it, then burry your ass in the alley where I can drive over your remains every day. You’re dead to me and I’m coming for you…….